Thinking about The End,
he saw no light. Heard
no angels playing-- felt only
a black space seeping open
inside his head.

On Thursdays,
facing away from
those plastic-tongued
Christian visitors,
he tried to hide
his wine-colored, trembling fear
deep in his pupils.
Their cat-smiles stung, bitter.

His moment came so quickly.
Nothing changed much.
Only the soap operas
flickered alone
and the air moved, soft
as if somewhere a door
were opening.

     -Diana Guillermo, 3-99